Lucifer's Valet

Posted in My Back Pages by lucifersvalet on 4 September 2010

In the dream we are trying to find Tina Nina Nu. We are in a television drama, or at an acting school. We have her picture, though the lipstick’s too heavy for it to be her.

Though life still has de-luxe moments, still has Wild Thing, if not hooter, it’s not compelling. My apartment is full of terrestrial ennui. My life is an ordinary failure.

That far deep, pain is mistaken for light. From the bathyscaphe we see a brand-new monster, the Bill Knott, poet of unmediated consicousness.


UPDATE: The poet himself appears in comments (speaking of rarities),  & directs us to his generosity, all his poems online.



Posted in Made Things by lucifersvalet on 2 September 2010

enrolled me in the album of your academy

He is the Magus as doctor, operating not only on his patient’s bodies but on their imaginations.

Alma Venus, with whom we walk in the green and flowery meadows, drinking the sacred air laden with spiritus

lean down through the armature of the spheres, tear open their envelopes

a way of dying called the Death of the Kiss

A compass was not a compass but a heiroglyph.


Posted in Narcissistic Self-Loathing, Poeticks by lucifersvalet on 2 September 2010

What Robert Hass’s poetry meant to me (in large part).


Posted in Loci communes, Poeticks by lucifersvalet on 1 September 2010

Chilton said to Robert Gordon, “Most of the Big Star stuff was searching for how to get through two verses without saying anything really stupid….” (John Jeremiah Sullivan)

Wittgenstein seemed to be operating by a similar principle. He wrote many book’s-worth of stuff, but only found less than a hundred pages that were sufficiently not stupid to publish before he died.

Similar scruples in a less talented writer leads to long silences.